Picking up the three runes, I closed my eyes and thought about them.

In my mind I walked past the fires burning in the Viking longhouse. The air was filled with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. I heard men laughing while their women served them. From the dark corners came another sound, the sound of growling dogs as they fought over sc.r.a.ps of food. Without a word, I moved through the door and out into the clear cold night.

A thousand stars glittered in the black sky and the light of the full moon guided my way into the woods. Soon I found myself next to a pool, the sky reflected in its still waters. Kneeling, I touched the smooth surface with my fingertips and the moon and stars danced upon the ripples.

Amazed, my eyes followed the ripples across the pool to where they washed against the feet of a dark warrior, staring at me from the other side of the pool. My gaze flew to his face, but it was masked by shadows. He was dressed in black and his dark hair gleamed in the moonlight. I watched while he stepped around the edge of the pool, his soft leather boots silent on the rocky rim. I felt no fear.

Without speaking, he knelt next to me and took my wrist with his gloved hand. I gasped when he plunged both of our hands into the cold water. Guided by his hand, my fingers trailed over the moss-covered rocks beneath the pool's shallow surface until they rested on a piece of wood. His hand curled my fingers around the thick wood. And releasing my hand, he placed his hand above mine and together we lifted the piece of wood.

With a whoosh whoosh, the wood came out of the water, pulling us to our feet. We stood side by side, our arms extended as we held the wood aloft.

Droplets of water rained down on me and the air sizzled with steam. I tilted my head back to see what it was we held above us.

The iron head attached to the rough wooden handle burned red-hot against the night sky. It was a Norse war hammer.

It was Mjolnir Mjolnir-the hammer of Thor.

Chapter Thirty.

The next morning Comacho called to inform me he'd pick me up at eleven. A quick glance at the clock told me I'd have time to pop by the hospital and check on Abby. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater, I hurried over to the hospital.

Her condition was the same, except she grew more restless. Abby would respond to loud noises and occasionally open her eyes for a second. The doctor indicated the restlessness was a good sign. Mother and Arthur continued their vigil. Satisfied, I returned home to wait for Comacho.

While I waited, I used the time productively; I dumped all the flowers in the living room and stacked Charles's notes on my desk. I'd read them later.

The living room clock was still chiming eleven o'clock when Comacho pulled in the drive. Grabbing my bag, I rushed out the door, remembering to lock it as I went.

Comacho wore jeans, a dark red sweater, and his mirrored sungla.s.ses. I caught a whiff of his cologne while I buckled my seat belt.

"I hope you don't mind, but I promised to stop by my sister's. She's having a birthday party for my niece," he said, backing the car out of my drive. "A bunch of little girls. Isabella wants me to meet them."

He said the name gently and with an accent. I noticed how the hard lines in his face softened as he did. Was it the same little girl I'd seen in his mind? I was dying to ask, but didn't think it wise to open a conversation about psychics and witches yet.

"I don't mind," 1 said, adjusting the strap on my seat belt.

I'd never paid much attention to Comacho's face before; I'd never looked past the disapproval reflected on his face whenever he looked at me. But now, out of the corner of my eye, I watched him while he drove.

He had a strong profile-a firm jaw, high cheekbones, and narrow lips. His nose jutted out from his forehead and, though a little on the large side, it fit his face perfectly, adding character. He appeared to be a man in complete control, and it was hard to imagine him at a child's party.

"You like kids?" he asked suddenly.

"I haven't had too much experience with them, except for babysitting as a teenager. I'm an only child. No nieces and nephews. What about you?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

He grinned. "Yeah, I've had plenty of experience. My dad died when I was twelve and I had to help my mom with my sisters."

"Where did you grow up?"

"Chicago."

"It must've been tough."

He gave a slight shrug. "Sometimes. We made out okay."

Finished with personal confessions, he reached over and switched on the radio. The sound of the Beatles filled the car.

Unwilling to share any more information myself, I turned my attention to looking out the window while I thought about the rune reading.

Should I mention the reading to Comacho? Nope, he'd reach for his handcuffs and haul me off to the nearest psych ward for evaluation. Glancing at him, I wondered if he had them tucked in his belt. What about his gun? Is he wearing it What about his gun? Is he wearing it? I squinted to see if I detected any lumps under his sweater.

"What are you doing?" His face wore a perplexed look.

Startled, I jumped. "Umm," I muttered, feeling my face get hot. "I was trying to figure out if you had your gun and your handcuffs with you."

"Why? Think I'll need them?"

I shrugged. "You like to pull out the handcuffs whenever you're around me. I wondered if you brought them, just in case."

He chuckled. "No, I don't think I'll arrest you today." He put emphasis on the word today today.

Does that mean he might tomorrow?

He reached over and turned the radio down. "Lonely?"

"Huh?" I asked, puzzled.

"Were you lonely? You said you were an only child."

"Some of the time, I suppose." I tugged at my seat belt. "I spent a lot of time with Abby and my grandfather. I was never lonely with them."

"I know your mother's here now, what about her?" He frowned. "Is she, you know, a-"

"Witch?" I said, supplying the word for him.

His frown deepened. "No. Don't even go there," he said, glancing at me, my smiling reflection caught for a moment in his mirrored sungla.s.ses. "I'm having a hard enough time with the idea of psychics, let alone witches."

"Oh, you wanted to know if my mother's one of them... psychic, I mean," I said, smiling broadly.

"Yeah," he answered in a disgruntled tone.

I decided to quit teasing him. Anyway, it isn't a good idea to tease someone with a gun.

"No," I answered. "The gift can skip a generation."

"Did you always know?"

"Yes, but from a young age, I was taught not to talk about it. Believe it or not, some people might think you're crazy if you tell them about the gift," I said, smirking.

"You know, you're kind of a smarta.s.s, Jensen," he said, glancing at me again. "Five years ago, I never would've suspected you have such a smart mouth."

"Five years ago, I was too scared."

"You're not scared now?"

I snorted. "Of course I am. Spitless."

Comacho drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "What can you do? Read minds?"

"My particular talent is precognitive images," I replied, thinking about my gift. "And I seem to be good at finding things."

Comacho made a choking sound before he spoke. "Bodies, you mean."

I glared at him. "I don't understand why people have a hard time accepting what a psychic can do. Cops use dogs to find things: drugs, search, and rescue-"

"They're dogs, not people," he said, interrupting me. "They have a heightened sense of smell."

"Well," I huffed, "I have a heightened sense too. It's located in my brain, not my nose."

The set of his jaw told me that he was pondering my a.n.a.logy.

"Lack of understanding, is that why you haven't married?" he asked, c.o.c.king his head.

Getting pretty personal, Comacho, but I decided to answer him.

"Put it this way: The gift isn't the easiest thing to live with-for me or for someone who cares about me. I was engaged once," I said, turning and staring out the window.

"He didn't understand your gift?"

"You might say that. I think it embarra.s.sed him and, deep down, scared him."

"Did he know about, you know," he said, waving his hand, "the other thing?"

I arched my eyebrow. "You mean the 'witch' thing?"

"Yeah," he said, gripping the steering wheel, "that thing."

"No. You're one of the few people in my life who's ever learned about 'that thing.'"

I saw him pull on his bottom lip and I think his eyes narrowed. Hard to tell with the sungla.s.ses on.

"Did Brian Mitch.e.l.l know?"

"Yes and I'm ahead of you on this one, Comacho. He was killed because of his knowledge."

"Okay. Why Gus? Gus know?"

I didn't answer right away. I was trying to decide if I should tell Comacho of my suspicions. While I thought about it, I noticed we'd turned down a street into a residential neighborhood. The houses were well kept with neatly trimmed yards. Bicycles and tricycles sat in many of the driveways and every backyard had a swing set.

Comacho whipped into one of the driveways. We'd arrived at his sister's.

I looked at Comacho quickly, my decision made. "Gus didn't know, I think he suspected. But I think Gus was killed because the killer thought he was a witch too. Gus had a squint." The words came out in a rush. "The star on Brian's and Gus's foreheads? I'm sure it's a pentagram, Darci figured it out. And-"

Comacho held up his hand, stopping me. "Okay. Okay. Sounds like you've been doing a lot of thinking. You can tell me all about it later." He got out of the car, opened the back door, and grabbed a present from the backseat. He stuck his head back in the car.

"Want to come in?"

"If you'd be more comfortable with me waiting in the car, I will."

"No, it's okay if you come in." He paused, thinking. "But don't let my sister pump you, okay?"

He walked around the car and opened my door for me.

Getting out, I looked up at him. "You didn't tell me I was crazy this time."

Before he replied, a little girl flew out the front door and flung herself at his legs.

"Uncle Henry," she squealed.

Balancing the gift under his arm, Comacho reached down and scooped the little girl into his other arm while an older replica of the girl stood in the doorway, watching.

His sister and niece.

His niece pulled his sungla.s.ses off and, placing her small hands on his shoulders, planted wet, smacking kisses all over his face.

Comacho responded by burying his face in her soft hair and growled like a bear.

She giggled, her brown eyes sparkling. Those brown eyes slid down to the present, wrapped in Barbie paper and bright pink ribbon.

Comacho lifted his head and looked at her.

"Is the present for me?" she asked in hushed tones.

"Isabella," called the woman from the doorway, "don't be asking your uncle about presents."

He leaned in close to the little girl's ear. "Yes," he whispered.

Her eyes widened and she looked down at the present again. Looking past Comacho, she noticed me standing on the walk.

"Who's that?" she asked and pointed a little finger at me.

"Don't point, Chica. It's rude," he said, his voice kind.

She rested her head on his shoulder and watched me, her eyes never leaving my face.